Emissary
by Uvatha the Horseman
Summary: The Mouth of Sauron (Urzahil of Umbar) is being raised as the bastard son of a nobleman in the house of his father. More than anything, he craves security and a title of his own.


**- The Foundling -**

The Haven of Umbar, TA 2932

Urzahil's mother slid out of bed and crawled toward the door until her arms collapsed beneath her. She lay on the floor, and her breath came in wheezing gasps. After a time, she struggled to regain her hands and knees, but fell again, and lay still.

Urzahil abandoned the warmth of the blankets and toddled over to her. All night he clung to her, waiting for her to wake up while her body cooled in his arms. By the time the horizon lightened to grey, he was desperately hungry and needed to nurse. He began to cry.

After a time, the door opened and filled the room with light. Urzahil looked up. The woman from next door stood in the doorway, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. Urzahil clung to his mother even more tightly, the woman had to pry his fingers loose before she could pull him to his feet and lead him outside.

That evening, Urzahil sat at the big farm table in the neighbor's kitchen, his feet dangling over the hard-packed dirt floor. The room smelled of smoke. A few coals burned on the hearth, enough to warm the room and drive off the chill of the ocean fogs that blanketed the city in winter.

Urzahil pushed pieces of bread around the plate that had been placed in front of him. The murmur of women's voices flowed over him, the chitchat of the neighbor ladies from up and down the street. He caught a number of words that were familiar to him, but he couldn't put together their meaning.

"My husband went to her village and talked to her people there, but they don't want him. They disowned her when her pregnancy started to show, and they've no use for the bastard. They won't take him, they don't even want to see him."

"Will the rug makers take him? The finest rugs have the tiniest knots, which can only be tied by the smallest hands. They're always looking for children to sit at the looms."

"Children, not toddlers. He was born two winters ago."

"Can he be sold into servitude, then?"

"He's too young. The traders won't take them before they're seven or eight."

The women fell silent. Someone was chopping vegetables on a butcher block, and an ember popped on the hearth, but otherwise the room was silent.

"Do we know who the father is?"

"She said it was Tar-Lintoron. He's from an ancient house, one of the Great Families of Umbar. I hear he's been supporting the two of them all this time: the rent on the cottage, an allowance for food, everything. He even visits sometimes."

"Would he take the boy, then?"

"I doubt it, he has a wife and family of his own, and a reputation to protect."

"Even so, the boy has nowhere else to go. It can't hurt to ask."

A few days later, Urzahil climbed the marble steps up to the grandest house he'd ever seen, his small hand completely enclosed in his father's. There was a portico over the double door, and stone balconies at each of the upstairs windows.

Before they reached the door, it was opened from within. They entered, and the servant who opened the door took his father's cloak and walking stick.

He looked around. As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he saw a floor of polished white stone with an inlaid pattern that looked like waves. A long walnut table dominated the room. Under it was a thick red carpet with a complicated pattern of flowers and animals. Recesses in the wall held silver vases with flowers. A sculpture of a fish sat on the table.

He realized they were being watched. A woman with hair the color of honey stood in the entry hall, her body stiff and her mouth set in a thin line. Behind her, a girl a year or two older than Urzahil, with the same honey-colored of hair, poked her head around the woman's skirts and smiled.

"I don't want your bastard in our home, Eädur," said the woman.

"I have no choice, he has nowhere else to go," said his father.

"The rumors that you took up with a farm girl when I was huge and clumsy with our first child are bad enough, but displaying the evidence where all our friends can see it is just too much."

"He's just a child, Vanimeldë. He's blameless in all this," his father said.

**- Nanny -**

By the time he was eight, Urzahil had to struggle to remember his mother's face, even though he still loved and missed her. The memory of her face was the one thing he still had of her, and it was precious to him.

One day when he was walking in the marketplace with his sister Aranelaith, he saw her. It was her, he was sure of it. He let go of Aranelaith's hand and ran to her. The woman gathered him in her arms and kissed him.

"You've gotten so big, I missed you so!"

"Mother, it's really you."

She laughed and kissed him again.

"No, it's Nanny. Don't you remember? I looked after you when you first came here," she said. Aranelaith was laughing too, but Urzahil hung his head, blinking hard. He had no memories of his mother at all.

**- A Slap in the Face -**

Everyone else in the household had gone to bed, but a lamp still burned in the dining chamber. Urzahil pressed himself against the plaster wall just outside, holding his breath and listening hard.

"… he's a constant reminder that, barely a year after we were married, you fell in love with a sweet and pretty girl who gave you a son. Every single time I see him, it's like a slap in the face." Lady Vanimeldë's voice rose well above its usual pitch.

His father murmured something in response. Urzahil couldn't make out the words, but the syllables were low and soothing.

Urzahil was glad the family fishing fleet was run from the harbor below the city, and that his father was never far from home. The fathers of his friends were often away at sea for months at a time, or riding with a merchant caravan through the desert along the spice routes.

Without his father, a born peacemaker, acting as a buffer between him and Lady Vanimeldë, he didn't think they could live together under one roof. He was sure that if Lady Vanimeldë had her way, she would have his things tossed into the street and the door barred against him.

**- Fishing Fleet -**

The Haven of Umbar, TA 2944

Urzahil picked his way down the steep road that led from the city to the harbor below, and reminded his younger brothers to hang on to the railing and watch where they put their feet. The day was already hot, but the shadow of the walled city, perched high on the cliffs hundreds of feet above them, shielded them from the sun. Wildflowers grew from cracks in the stone bluff, and stirred in the breeze from the ocean, glittering in the west.

The Haven of Umbar was a walled city perched on a steep bluff dominating the harbor below, an inlet of the Bay of Belfalas. The road from the city to the waterfront was so sharply inclined that, here and there, stairs had replaced the steeply sloped cobblestones.

The Bay of Belfalas was one of the most strategically important harbors in Arda, and control of the Havens

The city had changed hands several times times since it was founded by the island kingdom of Númenor, and even though Númenor itself disappeared beneath the waves three thousand years ago, the residents of Umbar, like their arch-enemies in Gondor, still spoke the ancient language, still upheld the customs, and like Gondor, still called themselves Númenorians.

The steep road gave way to the level quay surrounding the harbor. Urzahil's calves ached with cramp and his clothes were sticking to his skin. The harbor smelled of salt spray, dead fish, and mud flats. Urzahil breathed it in; it was the smell of sea voyages and adventure.

Something glittered high above the city. Without thinking, Urzahil turned to look, and dazzling light caught him full in the face. He squeezed his eyes shut and jerked away, temporarily blinded with dark after-images dancing behind his eyelids. It was The Pillar, a tall stone column supporting a crystal globe which caught and focused the rays of the sun. Urzahil could never remember not to look at it directly.

The Pillar stood high on the bluff high above the walled city. Built as a war monument, it commemorated Sauron's defeat and capture by the army of Númenor some three thousand years ago. The crystal could be seen hundreds of miles away at sea; at close range, it was blinding. Urzahil had never liked it.

In fact, if the Pillar fell over today, he wouldn't shed any tears. It had been built by the forces of Gondor who regarded Sauron as an Enemy, rather than as a great warrior who swept across Arda in the Second Age and then vanished from the earth. Urzahil loved to hear stories about the renegade Maia[1], a figure out of legend, larger than life.

They finally reached the bottom of the road, and stepped onto the quay. The grog shops and brothels were shuttered closed at this time of day, the hour before noon, so it was perfectly safe for a youth and two boys to explore the waterfront. Even so, a trip to the docks was a special treat. The younger boys were only allowed to go on the docks if he was along to keep an eye on them. It was fun being in charge of the outing, and it made him feel important.

"It's one of Father's boats!" Aldamir shouted. He ran to the edge of the quay, close enough to risk falling in. Urzahil looked at the stone curb, the pilings sharp with barnacles, and the approaching vessel. He leapt forward to pull his brother away from the edge.

The boat dropped sail, nimbly turning and coming to rest against the quay. Coils of rope tossed over the side unwound in the air towards the quay, where they were caught and cleated down by dockhands. The three of them watched the boat unload its catch, the silvery fish slipping from the nets.

To his brothers, it was just an exciting day at the waterfront, but Urzahil listened to adult conversations, and he knew that, along with the rents from a few farms somewhere up north, the fishing boats were the main source of his family's wealth.

**- Poor Relations -**

Urzahil was often reminded that he was a poor relation. The family spent less on him than they did on his brothers. Urzahil's clothes were as fine as everyone else's, but he didn't have as many shirts and robes. He owned only one pair of boots at a time, and the soles were usually worn through before he was allowed to replace them.

His room was on the same floor as his brothers, but it was smaller, and it had a view of the blank wall of the house next door instead of the gardens and the sea beyond. His room had the same furnishings as his brothers', a carved bed with costly hangings, a thick carpet, finely made oil lamps, but they were pushed together however they would fit into a much smaller space.

But Urzahil had something they didn't. He was scholarly like his father, and was the most similar to his father in looks and temperament. He knew instinctively that he was his father's favorite, and he knew that all the security he had in the world was based on that simple fact.

**- Tutor -**

When his two younger brothers reached the age at which boys begin school, a tutor was hired to teach the three of them. Pellardur was the younger son of a noble family. He had a University education, but since his family's estate was entailed to the first-born heir, he had to make his own way in the world. He lived with Urzahil's family as a teacher and companion to the children, a common occupation for the younger sons of noble houses who had no property of their own.

Urzahil knew that within a few years, Pellardur would leave them to become a merchant or a ship's captain or an advisor at Court, the position secured for him through family connections, if his career were to follow the same arc as that of every other younger son. That's how it had always been, first sons ran the family estate and younger sons entered the professions. Urzahil didn't even want to inherit the fishing fleet, he preferred to enter one of the professions.

As the oldest of the three boys, and a natural scholar like his father, Urzahil got the largest share of Pellardur's attention. His brothers were athletic and rough and tumble. The young tutor tried to teach them as much astronomy and geometry as they needed to navigate by the stars, and as much geography as an army captain required to travel cross-country, but his brothers had no interest in the history of Númenor or in learning ancient languages.

"Urzahil, you're a natural scholar. You should consider staying on at the University to teach, after you finish your course of study," said Pellardur.

Urzahil was flattered, and after he thought about it, he thought that was something he'd like to do.

**- Historical Skit -**

The Haven of Umbar, TA 2947

During the Summer Solstice festival, their tutor Pellardur took the four of them on an outing to the oldest part of the city, to watch students from the University perform a play about the history of Umbar.

The square where the play would be performed was inside the original city walls, which enclosed several dozen houses and shops. The buildings inside the walls were small and crudely built, usually a single room with a loft above it. Some dated back thousands of years, to the time when Umbar was a colonial outpost of Númenor.

Urzahil stopped in front of an ancient mud-brick house, now open to the public as a historical site. He bent down to study the brass plaque beside the door, and read,

_Home of Er-Mûrazor, First Captain of the Haven, SA 1900_

Behind him, Pellardur was saying, "Er-Mûrazor, the Black Prince, was the younger son of the twelfth king of Númenor, Ciryatan the Shipbuilder. He was one of the founders of Umbar, and the first Captain of the Haven." [2]

Pellardur could turn anything into a lesson, even a holiday at the Summer Solstice festival.

"Er-Mûrazor sailed from Númenor and led the early coastal campaigns. A great general, he captured large swaths of the coast, but the most important, strategically speaking, was this port, the Haven of Umbar. He built a fortified city high on the bluff and made it his capital."

Urzahil rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. He stepped through the doorway of the ancient house to escape the lecture, but Pellardur followed him, still talking.

"No, really, it's an interesting story. Er-Mûrazor was fiercely loyal to his father, the king. They say he led the military campaign hoping to win his father's approval. But instead of being impressed, his father ordered Er-Mûrazor to give Umbar to his brother Atanamir, who already stood to inherit their father's throne. Er-Mûrazor refused to give up the Haven of Umbar, even at the risk of being disowned. And that's how Umbar became independent."

By now, Urzahil's eyes had adjusted to the dimness. He saw a hard-packed dirt floor, a huge fireplace built from round stones, and a ladder reaching into the attic. The beams supporting the low ceiling were black with smoke. The dwelling resembled what a homesteader would make for himself with simple tools. Yet the furnishings inside this primitive shelter were spectacular. In the far corner of the room, there was a magnificent four-poster bed. The embroidered silk hangings were finer than anything he'd seen in the homes of wealthy friends. The conquerors must have brought them here from Númenor.

"Are those the original bed hangings?" Urzahil asked. He wouldn't mind having something like that himself.

"They're copies. The originals would be five thousand years old, they'd have crumbled to dust by now," said Pellardur.

They were magnificent. He wouldn't mind having something like that for himself. The rest of the furnishings were just as splendid. A chest against the wall was inlaid in a more complicated pattern than was ever seen today. A bowl on the table, an oil lamp, a sword in a leather scabbard, all looked finer than anything from colonial Umbar.

"Er-Mûrazor means 'The Black Prince'. He was born during a solar eclipse, and had the blackest hair any of them had ever seen."

Urzahil's attention wandered. He liked history as much as the next person, but he didn't see what any of this had to do with him, unless …"Was Er-Mûrazor one of my ancestors?"

"No, he never married. He didn't have any children," said Pellardur.

"He could've had children outside of marriage," said Urzahil.

"He could have, but they wouldn't count, would they?" Pellardur snickered, and then his hand flew to his mouth. "Oh Urzahil, I didn't mean that."

_Sure you didn't,_ Urzahil glared at him.

By this time, a large crowd had gathered in the square. Urzahil was tall enough to see easily, but his younger brothers weren't, so they pushed through the crowd to get closer to the front.

A magnificent throne had been set up on the stone platform surrounding the fountain in the center of the square. Around the throne were half a dozen soldiers, heavily armed. A tall man with untidy hair and the embroidered silks of Númenor stood on the dais. He introduced himself as Caldûr, instructor of Númenorian History. His baritone voice boomed across the square.

"People of Umbar, today the History of Númenor class will present a play about one of Númenor's greatest military triumphs, an event which occurred right here in Umbar over three thousand years ago on this very spot. The play will be as historically accurate as possible, not only because my students are dedicated scholars, but because their grade depends on it." The crowd tittered.

"It is the year 3262 in the Second Age. Ar-Pharazôn the Golden has challenged Sauron of Mordor for the title, Lord of the Earth. Ar-Pharazôn raises a great army, and rather than fight, Sauron's forces drop their weapons and flee before the might of Númenor. Now, Sauron must kneel before the throne of Ar-Pharazôn and speak the words of surrender."

A man dressed in the robes of a king ascended the dais and took his place on the throne, Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, last king of Númenor. He looked over the crowd, stern and commanding, a ruthless tyrant.

There was a stir on the far side of the square. The crowd parted to reveal a man, alone and unarmed. He held his arms away from his body, palms upturned.

Urzahil craned his neck to get a better look. The man was dressed in simple blue robes, and he wore a plain gold ring on one hand. He was clean-shaven, with black hair that hung to his waist. Like all of the Holy Ones, he looked Elvish. Where did they find an Elf to play Sauron? But Elvish merchants often passed through Umbar, the students must have hired one. The guards in front of the king stepped aside, and he approached to the king and knelt at his feet.

"I surrender to one greater than myself, and express regret for my crimes," said the Elf playing Sauron.

"I meant to have you killed, but I will allow you to become my vassal instead," said Ar-Pharazôn.

Sauron placed his hands between Ar-Pharazôn's and swore an oath that made him Ar-Pharazôn's servant in which he vowed never to harm the king. Sauron got up to leave, but soldiers seized him and clapped him in irons.

"No! You promised I could go," said Sauron.

"I changed my mind," said Ar-Pharazôn.

The actor playing Sauron was forced down the steep road to a ship waiting in the harbor. The crowd lined both sides of the road and jeered at the prisoner.

Caldûr, the history instructor, spoke the closing lines. "Ar-Pharazôn didn't know it at the time, but he had just made the greatest mistake of his life. When Sauron was finished with Númenor, all that remained of the island kingdom was a smoking crater on the floor of the ocean."

The crowd broke up, and the five of them went to look for the sweets vendor who sold cold lemon juice.

"It's a true story, and it really did happen in this very square, three thousand years ago. That's where Ar-Pharazôn throne stood when he accepted Sauron's surrender, and this is the road where Sauron was marched to the waiting ships. It's just about the most important thing that ever happened in Umbar. The Great Pillar in the harbor was built to commemorate it," said their tutor.

"Whatever happened to Sauron?" asked Urzahil.

"He was killed in battle right after he returned from Númenor. He was never seen again."

* * *

[1] angel (or fallen angel, in Sauron's case)

[2] In TA 1300, Er-Mûrazor acquired another title, the Witch King of Angmar. (Iron Crown Enterprises)


End file.
